Opening The Door
by DarklessVasion
Summary: Harry's life ain't all it's cracked-up to be. Old Moldy-Shorts is gone, and everybody is happy and going on with thier lives. But what about the Boy-Who-Lived? When does Happiness come for him?


**Opening the Door**

**By: DarklessVasion**

Canon: up to and including most of Deathly Hallows. Alternate ending and continuance, becoming an AU.

Summary: Harry's life ain't all it's cracked-up to be. Old Moldy-Shorts is gone, and everybody is happy and going on with thier lives. But what about the Boy-Who-Lived? When does Happiness come for him?

Disclaimer: I do not own anything or anyone from J.'s wonderful world. Harry Potter and all entailed in the stories do not belong to me and I am making no money or profit of any kind with the writing and posting of this fanfiction. This story was written for the enjoyment of readers and myself.

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

Harry sighed tiredly as closed the front door behind him, plodded down the hall and plopped down onto the sofa kicking off his shoes. The stillness of his home at 12 Grimmauld Place surrounded him and a familiar feeling of aloneness once again took hold. He glanced around the gloomy room that no amount of colorful cushions or cheery walpaper ever seemed to brighten. It's as if the very walls shadowed all within, the ponderance of generations filled with pureblood hatred permiated and strangled anything positive.

He leaned back with a groan, stretching the aches out. Auror training was harder and more tedious than he had thought, but it at least filled his days, leaving only the nights for him to brood.

A loud pop had him jumping to his stocking feet and whipping out his wand, a spell on his lips before catching sight of the source.

"Kreature, how many times do I have to tell you, use the door? You know how edgy I get when I just get off."

The wizened house-elf bowed briefly, a slight frown on his face, "Sorry Master Harry, one forgets hisself." The worried frown deepened, wrinkles all but hiding the bulging eyes.

"Eh, that's alright. Just try to remember? Please? Untill they stop doing the 'sneak attack' training, I wouldn't want to accidentally blow you up or somthing."

The house-elf's eyes widedned and he nodded, "Yes, Master Harry, this one will tries harder to remember." The large, droopy ears flopped as he shook his head sorrowfully.

Thankful that this house-elf was not so hyper as other elves he'd encountered, he sat back down, propping his elbows on his knees with his wand dangling carelessly in loose fingertips. Closer to eye-level with the diminutive creature, Harry asked, "What did you want anyway?"

"Ah," Kreature's expression lightened, "does Master Harry wants supper tonight?" He looked on hopefully.

"Oh . . . um . . . maybe something light, thanks."

Kreature bowed lowly, his bulbous nose almost touching the floor, "Kind Master, thanks are not needed," he straightened and blinked hard, as if holding back tears, "one is not worthy, not worthy at all. An honor to serve, I've always served, honor...oh, my Mistress, how you'd be..." he trailed off as he turned and shuffled through the door, presumeably towards the kitchen.

Harry ignored the familiar rambling monologue, knowing it was useless to argue about certain subjects with the old thing. He wiped his face tiredly, noting the sparce stubble, wishing not for the first time that it was spread enough to bother with growing it out. He snickered to himself, imagining himself with a beard. _'I wonder how long it would take to grow it as long as Dumbeldore's?' _He frowned in sorrow as thoughts of the long-gone wizard led inevitably to others lost in that last battle, and he rubbed at the faded scar on his forehead.

He flopped back in a slouch, looking at the various framed pictures lining the mantlepiece and shelves. The Order of the Phoenix group photo, so many gone; Sirius smiling and poking James, Lilly turning and slapping him in retaliation, Remus next to them shaking his head in tolerance, even Snape's sneering countenance in the shadows causing a pang of regret and loss.

Next to it, the picture from the newspaper with the Weasely clan on vacation that Ron was so proud of that he had to frame it and give it to Harry. Then the picture of himself and Ron on either side of Hermiony with their certificates of Graduation. Harry snorted with humor, "Even though we had to do it a year late, 'Mione still drove us nuts with her study schedules."

A class picture of young Teddy from his first year of muggle grade school, his features a familiar blending of Remus and Tonks, being the only unmoving picture marking it as odd, his missing front teeth making his cheerful smile adorable. _'Hmm, need to make a play date with my Godson soon,' _Harry thought with smile._ 'It's been a while.'_

One endtable held several pictures imortalizing the marriage of his two best friends. Group photos of friends and family, smiling and waving, Ginny with her current date. During Harry and Ginny's long separation, they just couldn't seem to find that closeness they had had before and she went back to dating while Harry wished her well. There was even the uncomfortable faces of Draco Malfoy and his new bride, invited in the hope of mending the Malfoy-Weasely feud. All Hermione's idea, of course._ 'Charity begins at home, and so does forgiveness.' _Her strident argument with Ron was still ringing in his head, _'How are our children ever to get along if _'we' _can't bury the hatchet?' _

The bemused Groom standing next to his glowing bride, the happy couple with both sets of parents . . . the next with Harry standing between the two, smiles identically wide and arms around each other.

Harry sighed again, lonliness at missing them eating away at his short-lived amusement. A self-mocking smile flashing, remembering how ecstatic they were with his wedding gift of enough gold to take that dream vacation they'd been thinking of saving-up for and turning it into a Honeymoon trip. Touring the Orient was exotic enough to intrigue Ron, but the prospect of learning a different culture and magical discipine with the Asian wizards practically had Hermione drooling. Ron unexpectiedly finding a job there had extended their trip from weeks to months. Maybe years to read from 'Miony's rapture at (once their roles in helping to rid the world of one of the darkest wizards to come along was discovered) having unlimited access to certain private libraries.

"Hmm," he scoffed resignedly, "Probably years."

Missing them horribly, he looked from their Graduation picture again back to the Order photo, with it's creases straitened out under the glass, at Snape in the shadows to one side of the group, going from sneering to frowning to looking at Harry's parents in the foreground, then hunching with crossed arms before looking away.

Harry rose and crossed the room, picking up the picture and studying the dark, shadowy figure that the others seemed to ignore. That hunching misery looking more self-protective the longer he studied it. "Is that it, Snape?" The tiny person turned away, and Harry frowned. "You miss having her friendship, don't you?" The Potions Master's shoulders seemed to flinch before he stepped out of frame.

"Huh." Harry set the picture back on the mantle, "He's never done that before." After a few minutes and Snape did not return, Harry turned away, his own shoulders slumping, understanding the secretive man more. "Letters just don't fill the gap, and you didn't even have that." At the doorway, he glanced back at the picture, at the empty spot, "I think I know how you feel." Harry turned and left the room.

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

The door to Grimmauld Place slammed open and was shut just as forcefully as Harry stomped in, anger and frustration marring his face.

"UGH! Damn that Greene!" He ripped off his scorched Auror-training robes and threw them onto the floor in smouldering ruin, hardly stopping his stride down the main hallway. "He's had it in for me from day one. '_You're just here because you offed You-Know-Who,' _Bastard still can't even say his name! Doesn't matter I got the scores I needed, passed all their tests and jumped through all their hoops!" He stopped at a mirror in the hall, swiping at the bloody smudge on his chin. "I'm done being his punching bag during so-called practice." He touched the puffy abraision with a wince and turned away, "I didn't take it from Dudley lying down, I sure as Hell ain't gonna take it from HIM!"

He moved determinably towards the desk in the library, walls filled with quetionable books collected by generations of Blacks, pulling out writing materials and slamming drawers. Harry sat down, dipped his quill,_ 'I have got to get some regular pens in this place,' _and scribbled furiously on the parchment, rolled it up and sealed it. "I'm done with it all."

Leaving his resignation on the desktop to deliver in the morning, Harry left the room for upstairs and a long-desired soak in the tub. "Well, I was wishing for some time off to go visit Ron & Hermione." He took the stairs two at a time, "Maybe I'll just do that!" The bathroom door latched behind him with finality.

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

Harry opened the front door of Grimmauld Place, juggling wrapped parcels and his old school trunk, now sporting foreign stickers on it's battered sides. Harry was unable to discard the trustworthy piece of luggage for something newer, being too frugal in nature because of his deprived upbringing. He kicked the door shut and set down the trunk, piling the parcels on top.

"Kreature! I'm back!" His voice echoed hollowly, just like it always did.

He sighed and straightened his back wearily, swearing to find a better way to travel. It was either umpteen dizzying floo connections, leaving him with vertigo, coupled with questionable portkeys, that sometimes dropped you in the wrong place, or taking a muggle plane with hours of being in cramped conditions, sandwiched in with strangers and mind-numbingly long layovers and or cancellations. Not to mention the increased security, asking akward questions about 'sticks' in your carry-on.

"Too bad it's too far to fly on my broom." His month-long visit with his friends had gone quite well, but he had often felt like a third wheel when they were all together. So Harry had made his own day trips, touring around alone. And it had felt that way; alone. He'd come back to Ron & Hermione's place to trade stories of their respective days, but the obvious glances of the newly married couple made him uncomfortable, so when the time to return came, he was sad but glad to go home.

"Home," he looked disappointedly around him and shook his head. "Home sweet home." His sarcasm went unnoticed and he frowned, "Kreacher?" He pulled off his jacket and tossed it over the sofa as he passed, heading toward the basement stairs, "Kreature? Where are you?" He paused, listening and waiting, puzzled at the lack of responce. He trotted down the stairs to the kitchen where everything looked neat and clean. Well, as clean as scarred cabinets, cracked tiles, and rusty and stained enamel can be.

Immacuately dingy.

Harry smiled at the oxymoron, then frowned, looking under the table, then into the pantry. "Kreature?"

Starting to worry about the old elf, Harry approached the house-elf's cupboard where he insisted on nesting. Harry hesitated a moment before reaching for the knob to open the door. And there, in his cozy nest, lay the unmoving Kreature.

Harry sat on the floor, feeling numb. Not too surprised, everyone said that Kreature was the oldest house-elf anyone had ever seen, but feeling guilty for leaving the poor old thing alone when his time ran out.

He didn't know how long he sat there, staring. No stranger to death despite his own youth, he was remembering the misunderstood elf, how badly he'd been treated before Harry discovered his torment and unswerving loyalty to Regulus Black. How the elf had changed when treated with respect instead of contempt.

"And I left him all alone..." Harry bowed his head and pressed his fingers to his eyes, pushing his glasses up. With a heavy sigh, he reached in and carefully wrapped the dead elf in his favorite scrounged blanket, and lifted him into his arms. Standing akwardly, he carried him upstairs and out the back door into the yard, intending to find a shovel in the garden shed to dig Kreature a proper grave.

A while later, Harry stood alone amid the dry autumn weeds, staring at a stone he'd inscribed, remembering another grave . . . another stone . . . and another elf.

The gray skies felt appropriate.

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

Harry walked dispiritedly through the front door of Grimmauld Place, feeling as gloomy and wretched at the house.

"I'm home," he mocked.

He stumbled drunkenly over his own feet and he bumped into the wall, tearing the shoulder seam of his dress robes. Harry fingered it with a watery giggle, and struggled to pull the garment off, fighting with the tie as if it were strangling him.

"Damn -- hic -- things!" The robes hit the floor and he toed off his stiff shoes, wriggling his stocking toes in relief. "I'm won't do't again."

He tumbled onto the sofa and rolled to his back while tugging on his socks, snickering at his wriggling, pale toes in the dark, oppressive room.

Harry looked at the celing and frowned, flipping his middle finger at the blank walls, "tha's fer you!"

He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt before just yanking it open, buttons flying everywhere, shrugging it off and taking a deep breath of relief. He blinked blearily, peering myopically at the pictures on the mantle, "No more wed -- hic -- weddin's." He reclined, half undressed and stared blankly at nothing and rubbed at the ache in his chest that the alcohol couldn't mask.

"_**NO**_more," he sighed heavily, "no more happy people saying _'I do' _when I can't even get a _maybe_."

He tossed his glasses onto the endtable uncaringly toward Ron & Hermione's picture, remembering how he'd dodged the photographer trying to get a picture of him with George and the to-bedamned-happy bride, finding the champaigne bottles behind the bar, nabbing two and downing the both of them behind the Weasley's garage.

He rubbed his eyes, "Oh Merlin....did I throw a gnome onto the buffet table?" He groaned in embarrassement, "Bullox!"

Disgusted at his own behaviour and self-pity, he pulled a throw pillow over his head.

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

A storm rattled the windows of Grimmauld Place, the wind blowing the front door open and slamming it against the wall.

Harry looked up from the book he was reading in the library and frowned. Setting the book aside, he went to close the door, checking the latch over and reminding himself again that he needed to replace it. This time he threw the hardly-ever-used heavy security bolt when he shut the door and shuffled back to his reading.

He was tired of being set up on blind dates with the friends, relatives and aquaintances of his friends, and was determined to relax at home with no demands on his time or patience. The quiet no longer bothered him, at least it was better than the mindless prattling of the men and women he'd been paired up with, blind with hero worship and trying to impress him. Disgust and dismay was more like it. Oh, what he wouldn't give for someone to treat him as no one anymore special than anyone else; as just _Harry_. He'd even take the dirision and insults of his old potions professor as music to his ears. Snape had almost gone the opposite direction and acted like he hated Harry, but at least he didn't pander to him. He had been honest that way.

It was a facinating book he had found on the shelves of the old Black library. About how many muggle fairy tales were based on wizarding history and facts. The one story he kept coming back to was the one about Isabella Nocturne.

She was the daughter of an impoverished muggle landowner who owed a large debt to another man. When the man tried to collect his debt by claiming the beautiful Isabella in lieu of payment, she was desparate. She went to the wise-woman in the woods nearby for a solution. The old woman, Miranda Mildew, a well-known witch and potions master in her own right, took pity on the girl and gave her a draught of her own making; a peculiar variation on the Draught of Living Death. This potion, she claimed, would make her appear to have died and only the kiss of her soul mate, or true and destined love, would awaken her from her deathly sleep.

The story goes on to tell of the girl's supposed death on her wedding night, and how she was spirited away from her tomb by the young man who loved her.

The muggle stories of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty were loosely based on the tale, as was Romeo & Juliet written by Shakespere, a writer who had wizarding friends and connections and had surely heard the true story.

At the end of the book were references to the books where the potions mentioned previously could be found.

"Potions," Harry murmured, looking at the full to bursting shelves around the room, and thinking of the room where Snape had set up a temporary lab upstairs during his years of spying for the Order.

"Huh..." he looked back at the book in his lap, wondering just how desperate lonliness can make someone . . .

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

Harry closed the front door of Grimmauld Place with it's shiny new latch and strode down the hall with his carefully wrapped package. He took the stairs swiftly to the third floor and the make-shift potions lab. He restrained himself from looking over his shoulder, swearing he could almost feel Snape's presense every time he entered the room.

He had found it just as Snape had left it; neatly labled bottles, shelves with various cauldrons and utensils, the workbench clear but for the dust of dissuse. Not even Kreature had been allowed in here and it had taken a whole day to clean six years of dust without using magic. He remembered Snape's voice snarling about useless wand waving and how it could disrupt the delicate balance of potions when magic was used to clean things. Harry smirked when he recalled the almost sadistic glee that Snape took by using detentions for justifiably cleaning up the potions' classroom back at Hogwarts.

He sighed and set the package down on the bench next to the potions book he'd found in the library with the scrap of parchment marking his place. How fortuitous that Miranda's mysterious potion had never grown in popularity because of one very rare, almost impossible to get ingredient; basilisk spleen.

Harry opened the book and gathered the ingredients, then reached for the package.

He began to brew.

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

The lock rattled then gave way under the unlocking spell and the door to 12 Grimmauld Place slowly swung open. The silence was profound as if waiting for somthing.

He closed the door quietly and peered into the front room, frowning at the clutter of mismatched furniture and the slight distraction of dozens of moving pictures gracing the tables and shelves. He walked around the room, taking in each picture, many of people long gone. If one were to sit on the sofa, one might feel surrounded by friends and family, but it would be a false and fleeting feeling once you realize you were the only one there.

He set the Weasley wedding photo down and proceded down the hall and up the stairs, pausing on the landing. In the back yard, a curiously well-tended plot amid the weeds stood out, catching his eye and making him frown. He stared at the tiny grave for a moment before continuing up the stairs to the third floor, stepping soundlessly and turning the latch on the potions lab's door. It creaked open, making him flinch, so he swiftly searched the room, his eyes narrowing on the mess on the workbench and the spoiling concoction in the abandoned cauldron.

Again the silence reclaimed the area, and finding no one, he approached the bench, glancing at the spoiled glop and the propped-open book. He compared the remains of ingredients strewn about to the recipe clearly written in the book and swore out loud, "Foolish Gryffindor!"

He stormed out of the room and started opening doors, one by one, quickly perusing each empty room before moving on to the next.

He finally found him, in Sirius' old room. Harry lay peacfully on the bed, his glasses on the side table and the vial still clutched in his hand.

The man sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, gently prying the tiny bottle from the lax fingers, sniffing at the dried contents and wondering how long he'd been lying here.

He threw the bottle to smash against the wall and his shoulders drooped in defeat. He reached over to stroke the messy hair off of Harry's forehead and whispered, "Stupid, STUPID brat."

He knew that potion, he also knew that it was only meant to be short term. The Draught of Living Death was a potion of indefinite use. Mildew's modifications, while intriguing from a brewer's point of view, made it useless in the long run, becuse it failed to stop the passage of time on the drinker. If there were no 'true love' waiting in the wings, the drinker could die for real in a matter of days from starvation or dehydration.

Black eyes scrutinized the recumbant face, "I bet you didn't read beyond the directions, didn't you?" He laid his hand on the younger man's neck and was able to descern a faint beat.

"Fat lot of good that'll do." He stood and began to pace in the narrow space between the bed and wall. "What did you think would happen?" He swivvled and shout at the sleeping Harry, "That your _'Prince' _would ride up on a white horse, magically knowing you were here, to rescue you?"

He dashed back to the bed and grabbed Harry's shoulders, shaking him with every word, "You never think, do you?"

He stopped shaking him and suddenly pulled him up, hugging Harry close with a choked sob, "AH Lily..." he buried his face in the unresponsive Harry's neck, "I failed you again, didn't I?"

Harry would have been shocked to find such a tormented expression on Severus Snape's face, let alone be held so tightly by him.

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

Severus Snape never knew what made him go through that trunk.

He wasn't a good spy for nothing and he never left anything to chance. He knew Nagini was a dangerous element and had designed a potion to counteract her venom. The tricky part had been getting a sample without the Dark Lord finding out. After that, it had been easy.

He just hadn't expected her to outright bite him in the neck!

The antivenin was safe to take anytime and he'd been in the habit of taking it whenever he was 'called', never knowing when it might be needed. But the wounds he'd been left with in the Shreiking Shack had been most worrysome. When Potter and Granger had left him, he had truly thought he was dying.

Thank goodness for those first aid courses he'd taken, he just never thought he'd be using that knowledge on himself.

Once he got the blood to stop, he'd set fire to the shack then apparated to Spinner's End and gathered all he could, taking time out to further heal himself with his own special potions. Knowing he'd be thrown in Azkaban as a Death Eater or killed by Voldemort if found alive, both sides screaming for his death or worse, he followed through with his plans of relocating and reclaiming his life elsewhere. Starting anew, with no prejudice or past to ruin it. He had almost, _almost_ hugged a stranger in relief when word reached finally his haven that the Dark Lord was, indeed, dead.

He'd stumbled accross the forgotten trunk and, on a whim, had opened it, casually flipping through items, when the blinking crystal caught his eye. The old alarm for the potions lab at Grimmauld Place, then the Order of the Pheonix's Headquarters.

Thinking of possible dangerous ingredients left behind, he'd felt compelled to investigate.

Never had he imagined, not even in his darkest dreams, what he would find there.

Of course, the brat's idiocy was not surprising, even now.

"True Love's Kiss," he drawled at the sleeping Harry. "How nauseatingly typical of you. You are the only one I know who leaps first and looks second." Severus rolled his eyes and shook his head, "Only you would take a strange potion, trusting it to do as it says without getting a second opinion. Where is little miss know-it-all when you need her?"

He looked at the calm features of the Boy Who Lived without his glasses, finally seeing bits of his Lily in his adult features, supplanting his memories of the youth who ran through the walls of Hogwarts and got away with everything. He shook his head, "No, not a boy anymore."

He rested his hand on Harry's chest and felt the faint heartbeat, so faint it would be missed by someone less careful. His hand warmed where it rested and he thought of those green eyes that haunted him still, and Severus frowned, his own heart thumping when he considered how much he wanted to see those eyes again. Full of life and fun like Lily's had been. She'd been his light in a dark place, and now he felt like he had lost her all over again.

He paused suddenly, taking a deep breath and frowning while anylizing his own behavour. "No . . ." he breathed and looked away, pondering the series of events that had led him here, "it couldn't be . . . could it?" His dark eyes cut back to Harry's face and narrowed in suspicion. "Just how lucky can you be?"

After living the life of a spy, following hunches, using logic when applicable and never questioning his instincts, no matter how bizzare the conclusion, he unhesitantly leaned in close and pressed his lips against Harry's mouth (thankful that there were no witnesses he'd have to obliviate later), finding them dry but pleasently warm and pliant. Almost _too _pleasant.

He jerked back with a gasp when Harry's lips moved agianst his, watching in disbelief as the young man's breath filled his chest and watched his throat jump as he swallowed.

Severus clinched his hand into a fist and muttered, "His Prince . . ." and shook his head.

Knowing that Harry was most likely to be parched, he quickly retrieved water from the bathroom in a transfigured glass and sat back down on the bed to wait.

---HPHPHPHPHPHPHP---

Harry felt his thoughts swirl without comprehension around in his head. He thought he remembered darkness that had seemed infinite, calling out into that dark abyss and hearing nothing but his own voice. Then he became aware of the familiar smells of Grimmauld Place; dry wood, mildew and rust with that hint of dark magic, leaving the air charged in a unique way. Then there was the feel of a soft bed underneath him, the supporting comfort of the pillow beneath his head . . . and the impatient sigh of someone in the room with him.

Green eyes blinked open, looking around in confusion, orienting on the blurred outline of someone sitting very close.

A voice, "Here, drink." A hand lifting his head and a glass at his lips. Ah, water.

"Not too fast, I do not know how long you've been here."

Harry swallowed the last mouthful and frowned, he knew that voice . . . but that was _impossible_. He was _dead_. Maybe . . .

Harry cleared his throat, "Snape? Am I . . . dead too?" His voice was slightly plaintive.

"Not with my luck, you impudent Brat. You are apparently going to be around a long while just to vex me."

Harry's glasses were placed efficiently on his nose and he gaped in shock at his very-much-alive Professor. "I--I . . . I saw you die!"

"Correction, Mr. Potter: you saw me _dying_, but never waited around for the assumed conclusion." Severus crossed his arms and looked smug, "And we all know what 'assume' means?"

Harry gaped at him, then suddenly remembed how he got here. He blinked and glanced around the room, frowning when he couldn't find anyone else. "I don't understand."

Severus smirked, "I could write a book about what you do not understand." The smirk faded and he leaned in close, bracing his arms on either side of Harry, "Besides, what's not to understand? You gambled and won . . . again." His black eyes narrowed piercingly, "To my most detrimental irritation."

Harry's eyes widened as Severus loomed closer still, sinking his head back into the squishy pillow, "What . . . I--I . . . don't--"

And strangely, a true smile flitted across the Potions Master's thin lips, "Well, Mr. Potter. Aren't you going to greet your _Prince?_ "

What followed was a kiss truly filled with magic.

--- FIN --


End file.
